


The Modern Ghoul

by i_paint_the_sky



Category: Doctor Who
Genre: Gen, Zombies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-08
Updated: 2012-07-08
Packaged: 2017-11-09 10:05:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/454260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/i_paint_the_sky/pseuds/i_paint_the_sky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eight takes Mary Shelley to meet H.P. Lovecraft, and in turn, Eight and Mary inspire Lovecraft's zombie-esque fiction</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Modern Ghoul

There are many beautiful things about Michelangelo's _David_. The youth's face, his stance, his muscular form. The way he looks out past his audience, waiting for the giant to appear. He is larger than life but when I look at him now all I can see are the marble veins that trail along his hand. As I stare at them, I am amazed that anyone could create such delicate details out of something so hard and unforgiving.

The peacefulness of the square in the afternoon is a blessing for me these days when I want to be alone. It is too empty at home. All the time I feel like I can hear their voices, see them in the corner of my eye ... my darling Willmouse and sweet little Clara. It is too cruel that they are gone and yet I remain. I know my husband would say that I have also gone away but it is not the same. Even little Percy Florence cannot ease it all, beautiful baby that he is. 

I look up at the sky, at the sun travelling across the great blue vastness, and can tell that it is time I headed home, before I worry my family any more than I already have. And so I begin to walk away from the magnificent statue when something catches my eye. Actually, it is someone that I notice. A man, a very strange looking man who is standing near _David_ 's foot, peering down and pointing at it with some strange piece of metal, unlike anything I have ever seen or dreamed. I know I should mind my own business and walk away but something inside me says not to. And so I walk over to him slowly, carefully.

“What is it that you are looking for, sir?”

The man looks up at me for a moment. “Sorry, no time to talk. Very serious business to take care of, I hope you can forgive me.”

I stare at him as he continues to do ... whatever it is that he is doing. I cannot look away and a queer feeling is coming over me, something I have not felt for a long time. It tingles in my veins, daring me to give it a name. “Is there something I can help you with?”

He looks up at me and smiles. “That is very kind of you to offer. I actually could use another hand here. Two hearts and no one ever thought up an extra arm. Anyway, here, could you hold this?”

He holds out a box and I take it. I look down and inside the box is such absolute darkness that it seems to go on forever. For a moment, I wonder if maybe it actually does.

“I told him that the foot was not the best place to put this but he wouldn't hear of placing it up higher,” the man babbles. “Something about ruining the aesthetic, because of course that's far more important than saving lives. Though he may be right, after what happens in 1991 ... it would have been far worse if it had been inside David's head.”

I open my mouth to say something and can't find a single word; given my craft, that is about the most terrible feeling in the world, save one. I can name the emotion I suddenly feel though: regret. I should have walked away when I could because this man is clearly mad and who knows what he plans to do next.

“Aha! I've found it!” he calls out gleefully, pointing his stick just below the statue's smallest toe. “Now, if I just turn it like this ...” he reached out and grips the toe and – oh my goodness, it actually did turn, just far enough for the man to reach in and pull out a small metal ball. 

“How did ... what is that? And how did you know it was there?” I ask him as he places the ball inside the box and closes the lid.

“Why, it's a Karaton Wave Emitter. And now that I've got it, I'm afraid I must be off.” He takes the box out of my hand and begins to walk swiftly away. Over his shoulder, he calls back to me, “Thank you very much for your help, Miss ...”

Despite all my better judgement, I hear myself tell him “Mrs. Mary Shelley.”

At the sound of my name, he freezes and turns back to face me. “Mary Shelley. Author of _Frankenstein_ Mary Shelley?”

“I am.”

He grins suddenly. “Wonderful. It is a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Shelley, an absolute pleasure.” And then he is off again, jogging away from the statue and away from me. I can only stand and watch him until he disappears from sight and I begin to wonder if he ever existed at all.

It is getting very late now and I really must be going. I cannot understand why I have delayed so much already, all over one mad man. It is so unlike myself but of course these days I hardly feel like myself anyway. With a long sigh, I turn and head off on my way home. But as I reach the edge of the square, suddenly that man is before me again.

“Hello again,” he says, smiling as before but his face looks different now, as there is a touch of gravity behind it. “It's 1820, isn't it?”

And there was even more proof of his madness but still, there is something in his eyes which I cannot turn away from. “Yes, of course it is,” I reply.

He nods slowly. “Yes. And last year was 1819 and not a very good one for you, I'm afraid.”

There has never been a greater understatement in my life and suddenly I am simply overcome by emotions. I do not know how he knows but somehow he does and all I can do to answer this knowledge is give a single, brief nod and begin blinking back the tears.

He gives me a moment to collect myself, even moving to stand between me and the others on the street so as to shield my outburst from prying eyes. “I know there is nothing I can do to erase those tragedies,” he says finally, handing me a handkerchief from his pocket, “But what I can do is use your help. In fact, I feel now that I may need it. So, Mary Shelley, how would you like to come with me on an adventure?”

His words have more effect drying my eyes than the kerchief and I find myself staring at him, my mouth slightly agape. He cannot be serious, can he? And I cannot even entertain the idea, no matter how deeply I am drawn by the old soul I see in his eyes. “I'm sorry, sir, but I am expected home.”

He nods. “Yes, I'm sure Percy is waiting for you. But what if I promise to get you there and back again in the blink of an eye?”

“H-how could you possibly do that?” I stammer, my mind too occupied with wondering to manage speech as well. Could he help? Could he? And how could I help him?

He only laughs. “You have so many questions, though I would expect no less of someone of your reputation. But I'm afraid I do not have the words to answer them. Instead, I will have to show you.”

He holds out his hand and I stare at it. “I know I am asking a lot but please,” he says, “trust me.”

I shouldn't. I can't.

I do, for a million reasons I cannot name and two that I can. And he leads me off towards a strange blue box and suddenly my whole world changes.

*

I still haven't gotten over this amazing thing the Doctor calls the TARDIS when the door is opened again and yet another world of amazing and unbelievable things is before me. “What is this place?” I ask.

“This is New York City and the year is 1925,” he replies.

“1925,” I repeat, dumbfounded. The logical part of my brain tells me that none of this can be true but I have not been listening to that voice for some time now; I wouldn't be here otherwise. 

I step out of the door slowly, looking out at this marvellous world. There are so many sights and sounds, some I recognize, others I do not. This is the world in a hundred years and it is incredible.

My reverie is interrupted by a firm hand on my arm. I turn towards the Doctor. “I understand that this is quite a bit to take in,” he tells me, “but we actually cannot afford to delay any longer. Plus there's someone who I bet will be thrilled to make your acquaintance.”

He leads the way and I follow, through the twists and turns of these strange streets and alleys. Finally he stops at the edge of an intersection and smiles, before calling out “Howard, over here.”

A man across the street looks up, then hurries over towards us. “There you are, Doctor. Did you get what you needed?”

“I did,” the Doctor said, “and then some. Howard Phillips Lovecraft, I'd like you to meet Mary Shelley.”

This man, Howard Lovecraft, turns and stares at me and keeps staring at me long enough for it to become uncomfortable. I am about to say something when he looks away and shakes his head. “Finally something too incredible to believe,” he mutters. Before I can ask why he would say that, a shrill scream comes from inside a nearby building.

“I believe that is our cue,” the Doctor cries out and then immediately runs off in that direction, with Mr. Lovecraft not far behind. I watch them and for the millionth time I ask myself how I possibly came to be here, to be _now_. 

And then I follow as well because at this point what other choice do I have? The Doctor is the only one who can get me home again and sudden fear seizes me as I realize how dangerous it could be to lose sight of him.

The building looks both modern and ancient to me, as it has clearly been standing for some time but is of a design I have never seen before. I have barely entered the doorway when a young woman appears, her hair askew and face sheet-white. She runs by me, almost knocking me over in her terror. I turn and watch her for a moment before remembering my companions, who by now are long out of sight. I can hear footsteps from the stairwell however and hurry to catch up, one hand gripping the rail while the other lifts my skirt away from my feet. The stairs keep going up and up and up and I with them, until finally I reach the very top floor and find the Doctor and Mr. Lovecraft standing before a door, with identical looks of trepidation on their faces. 

“What's inside?” I ask hesitantly.

The Doctor turns towards me. “I'm not quite sure yet, to tell you the truth. But we're all about to find out.” At that he takes a step forward and knocks on the door three times.

And now we are waiting, waiting, waiting. There is a sound from the other side, an uneven banging, and then it slowly opens, hinges squeaking as it does. Frigid air rushes out into the hallway, so cold it almost burns. I draw closer to the men, both for strength in numbers and to see better just what is in there, the chill deepening with each step that I take. At first I cannot see a thing in the darkness but then something begins to take shape.  
It is a man or at least he has the appearance of a man. But the angle at which his head is placed is far from natural and he continues to walk in a shambling, erratic manner. When he finally comes out far enough for some sunlight to fall upon his face, I can see that his skin is grey and rotting and one eye seems to be completely missing from its socket. My hands come up to my face, barely suppressing a cry of terror and I cannot help but think that I am finally finding myself face-to-face with my own creation.

“My god, it's a monster,” Mr. Lovecraft exclaims, his voice echoing my horror.

“No, good sir, it isn't,” the Doctor says, taking a step forward. “This, my friend, is a Craniovor.”

“Excuse me?” I manage to say, trying not to look at that horrible thing.

“A Craniovor. A parasitic race from the planet Formalhaut IV. They travel the galaxy and live by taking control – by possessing cadavers,” he explains, or at least he seems to think this is an explanation. Mr. Lovecraft and I look at each other, wordlessly communicating our confusion. After a moment he turns his attention back to the Doctor.

“So then this thing isn't human?” he asks hesitantly.

The Doctor frowns. “Well, right now it is perhaps half human but only because of the current host. If I were to keel over dead right now, it could take my body and become half Time Lord. Not that I plan to do that, of course, but it is within the realm of possibilities.”

“You speak as if I cannot hear you.”

We all jump at the hollow voice that suddenly emanates from the ... Craniovor. The Doctor recovers first, naturally, and faces the creature. “I apologize for my terribly bad manners. Please, give me the chance to make it up to you.” To my great horror, he then proffers his hand. “Hello,” he says, “I'm the Doctor.”

The Craniovor does not return the gesture, which is a relief as his hand seems to be missing more flesh than his face. Instead it takes a step back into the darkness and cold, then asks “What do you want of me, Doctor?”

The Doctor drops his hand with a shrug. “Well, here's the thing. You can't stay here. Humans aren't ready to come into contact with your kind yet. Plus, well, no offence but you sort of give them the creeps. So I'm here to invite you to leave peacefully, right now, today.” 

“And if I do not?”

“Then when I come back tomorrow I'll have to be more convincing.”

The creature makes a noise unlike anything I have ever heard and shuffles back some more, closing the door behind him.

“Have a lovely day,” the Doctor calls out at him, before turning back to Mr. Lovecraft and myself. “I think that went well.”

*

“So that thing was an extraterrestrial?” Mr. Lovecraft asks after we return to the TARDIS.

“Yes,” the Doctor says. “From Formalhaut IV, though they of course call it something different.”

I shift around in the chair I'm sitting in to look at the Doctor better. “And where are you from?” I ask him.

“What do you mean?” Mr. Lovecraft says, his voice confused. “Surely the Doctor is from Earth.”

“No,” I say, shaking my head, “you called yourself something else, a ... Time Lord, I believe. You're not human.”

The Doctor smiles at me. “Oh Mary Shelley, I always knew you would be clever. I'm so glad I got the chance to meet you.” He turns away, still smiling and still not answering my question. I decide not to press the issue, especially considering that I already know enough of the truth anyway.

Mr. Lovecraft walks over to stand beside me, looking at me intensely, again making me uncomfortable. “Is there something about me which causes you concern, Mr. Lovecraft?” I ask finally.

He looks so taken aback that I immediately regret the question. “No, not at all, I apologize if I gave you that impression. I am just in awe over the chance to meet a writer of your calibre. For awhile, I was not even sure it was really you but I think by now I have learned to trust in the Doctor. Besides, it is a rare woman indeed who could face down a creature like that ...”

“Craniovor.”

“Yes, the Craniovor. In all my wildest dreams, I never imagined that such a thing might actually exist in this world.”

I shake my head. “Nor I. In fact, sometimes it worried me that my imagination was able to come up with something so terrible and unworldly all on its own.”

“I know exactly what you mean. My own stories have been filled with some creatures so strange I sometimes can't believe they are my own creations.”

“You are a writer then?” I ask him, so glad that the strain that had existed between us is melting away.

“I am, though I have not had too much success at it, I'm afraid.”

“It is a difficult craft, one you can only pursue with true love.”

Mr. Lovecraft chuckles though it is not completely a mirthful sound. “Yes, true love indeed. It certainly has been as rough as any lover and not nearly as rewarding.”

I look up at him with concern. “I take it life has not been kind to you.”

“No, it has not. But then again it was not all that kind to you either, especially after your husb-”

The TARDIS suddenly lurches, causing Mr. Lovecraft to stumble backwards. “Careful now,” the Doctor calls out. “We wouldn't want anything or anyone to slip out of place.”

I grip the arms of the chair tightly until the world steadies itself again. “Well, that was exciting,” I say finally, taking a deep breath to steady myself.

“Indeed it was,” Mr. Lovecraft replies, looking over his shoulder towards the Doctor with a serious look upon his face.

“You are right though,” I tell him after a moment of silence. “Life has been terribly unkind to me recently. Sometimes I feel as if I am standing outside of myself, looking in on a scene too sad for me to ever put to paper.”

“I am very sorry to hear that,” Mr Lovecraft says.

“Thank you,” I tell him. “And I am sorry for your own hardships. But perhaps we both can find solace in our writing, provided of course we survive having made the Doctor's acquaintance.”

He laughs again and this time it is heartfelt. “Yes, I shall be very relieved when I am able to leave this city behind and retire to Providence in peace. Though I cannot help but be excited by being in such an adventure.”

“I'm glad to hear that,” the Doctor says, suddenly appearing by our side, “because it's time for the grand finale. Though if our dear friend behaves himself, I don't know that it will be worthy of your storytelling talents.”

*

We stand before that door once more and my heart is racing, while goose pimples rise along my arms. The cold seems to seep through the door even more than it did when we were here last – I have to remind myself that an entire day has passed in what seemed like mere minutes to me. The Doctor stands before the door and in his hands is that endless box.

“Doctor, why is it so cold?” I ask him, rubbing my hands together.

“To keep the body from rotting even further, I would imagine,” Mr. Lovecraft says first. I look to the Doctor, who nods, and a shudder passes through my body.

“Well, shall we?” the Doctor asks us both and before we can answer he has already knocked on the door. This time, there is no sound from inside. He knocks again and there is still no response. “Well, perhaps he has gone already. But then why is it still so cold?”

He pulls that stick he used on _David_ out from his pocket and points it towards the door. A moment later he reaches for the handle and pushes the door open. Together we peer into the darkness and see nothing, at least not at first. But then the Doctor takes a step forward and there is a sudden humming and a blinking light and he calls out for us to get down.

I drop to the ground just before there is a loud snapping sound and a beam of red light shines through where we just stood. Where it hits the walls it burns and the smell of burnt paint fills the hallway. Mr. Lovecraft is on the floor beside me, thankfully unharmed.

Before I have had time to gather my breath the Doctor is on his feet and striding forward. “So that's how you want to do this. Well, then that's the way it will be. But remember, I did warn you.” 

He reaches into the box which is miraculously still in his hands. From its depths he pulls the sphere from before, the Karaton Wave Emitter, squeezes it and then throws it forward. There is another beeping, higher pitched this time and the suddenly a loud thump. 

I have finally gotten to my feet and walk towards the Doctor, Mr. Lovecraft by my side. Now that my eyes have adjusted, I can see the creature lying on the floor, motionless. “What did you do?” I ask softly.

“The Karaton Wave Emitter disrupted the Craniovor's nervous system, thus severing his connection with the host body. And its ability to move into a new host.”

Mr. Lovecraft takes a brave step towards it, then backs away. “So then it's stuck there?”

“Yes,” he confirmed. “It will die inside that body. Which is a bit poetic, wouldn't you say?” Without waiting for an answer the Doctor heads for the door. He pauses in the hallway. “You had better come with me now, Mrs. Mary Shelley, since I did promise to have you back in the blink of an eye.”

The two of us follow him then, down the stairway and out of the building and all the way back to that wondrous blue box. The Doctor opens the door but pauses outside, turning his attention to Mr. Lovecraft. “Howard, it has been a pleasure, truly. I hope I will one day see you again, though you may not recognize me if I do. And the same goes for you, Mary, though this is not quite farewell yet.” After shaking Mr. Lovecraft's hand, the Doctor headed into the TARDIS, swallowed up by the impossibly big space inside.

I turn towards Mr. Lovecraft myself with a smile. “It has been quite an adventure, hasn't it?” I tell him.

“Oh yes, without a doubt,” he agrees. “And perhaps the most fantastical part of all has been the pleasure of meeting you.”

I feel my cheeks begin to warm at the genuine admiration in his voice. “Perhaps you will write a story about it then?”

“Or maybe you will.”

I nod. “Yes, maybe I will. Fare you well, Howard Phillips Lovecraft.”

“And you, Mary Shelley.”

I step back into the TARDIS and slowly close the door. I lean on it for a moment as the Doctor begins to take us back to my own time.

I still cannot believe the adventure we have had. I still cannot believe that I dared go with the Doctor at all. But somehow being here in 1925 and seeing and doing these unbelievable things have made me feel something other than despair.

I cannot say that I feel alive again after this because my wounds are still too raw. But for the first time, I feel like maybe I can move on again, that I can go home and kiss Percy Florence on his forehead and not find myself longing for the faces of his siblings as much.

And afterwards, when my dear baby is asleep, I will write and lose myself in a world that few would believe, even if I know part of it to be true.

*

I am sitting by an open window, a blank page of paper on the desk before me. I take a deep breath, inhaling the fresh country air. It is such a wonderful change from the grime and dinginess of the city.

I have just begun my attempt to find the beginning of a new story when there is a knock on the door. I stand up and walk over towards the sound. Standing on the other side is the mailman, who places a letter in my hands. I look at it carefully, surprised to see that it comes from England. I walk back inside to my desk and sit before I open it. There are two letters inside, one long and another short. I read the latter first.  


_Dear Mr. Lovecraft,  
_

_I hope these letters find you well._   


_My name is Bessie Florence Gibson. You do not know me but I am told that you did know Mrs. Mary Shelley. Her son, Sir Percy Florence Shelley, adopted me when I was very young. While I never had the opportunity to meet his mother, as she died before I was born, my father did entrust me with sending this letter to you, as per her instructions. I must admit that I do not completely understand the whole story behind this request but I was assured that you would.  
_

_Sincerely yours,  
Bessie Florence Gibson_

My hand is actually shaking as I pick up the longer letter, my heart beginning to pound. I unfold it carefully, as the paper is clearly aged. When it is laid out, I have to take a deep breath before I can start reading but once my nerves are calm I find myself quickly absorbed in her words.

_Dear Mr. Lovecraft,  
_

_I imagine this letter has you quite surprised. If I have had my way, it will have arrived mere months after we saw each other. For me, however, it has been many years.  
_

_I think often of our time together, the two of us and the Doctor. So much else has happened since I returned, though likely you know some of it. I remember that time you almost told me about my dear Percy's fate. I am sure you share my belief that the Doctor prevented it on purpose. It was certainly his way._   


_I have often tried to capture it in my writing but I am afraid I have never been able to do it justice. I hope that you will have had more success by now or that you will have success in the future..._

The letter goes on but for the moment I pause, as I am suddenly reminded of the blank paper before me and hit by sudden inspiration. I place the letter down beside me, where I will return to it in a moment. But for now, I know that I must write this story – our story – and I must do so now.  


I reach for my pen and place its tip against the paper and suddenly the words just begin to flow.

_You ask me to explain why I am afraid of a draught of cool air; why I shiver more than others upon entering a cold room, and seem nauseated and repelled when the chill of evening creeps through the heat of a mild autumn day._

*


End file.
